


Bane and Fungus

by Aragarna



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, Friendship, Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-25
Updated: 2017-09-13
Packaged: 2018-12-06 14:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11602476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aragarna/pseuds/Aragarna
Summary: A series of episode tags exploring John and Lionel's relationship throughout the series





	1. Oyster Bay (1x01 Pilot)

**Author's Note:**

> A big thank you to JinkyO for the beta work!

_\- ’John’? You're on a first-name basis?_  
_\- What do you call him?_  
_\- Bane of my existence._  
  
  
  
_\- Lionel's like a fungus, impossible to get rid of._  
  
 2x01 The Contingency

 

 

* * *

 

**Oyster Bay (1x01 Pilot)**

  **  
**

John sat at the back of the courtroom to follow the trial of Lawrence Pope, of which Diane Hansen, the number he was following, was the prosecutor. From his vantage point, he had a good view of the courtroom. Diane Hansen was interrogating Homicide Detective Lionel Fusco. She was standing with confidence, precise and pertinent in her interrogations. She obviously had experience and seemed very competent in her job. Watching her, John wondered if she could have attracted some jealousy from some of her peers, or possibly the anger of the criminals she put away.

John turned his attention to Pope. The man had quite a rap sheet. He was a career criminal and didn’t seem particularly afraid to be on trial. John intently looked at him to try and get a feeling whether Pope could be a menace to Hansen, but he was hard to read. He didn’t display any sign of guilt or anxiety. But he didn’t seem to have the coldness of a killer preparing a vengeance either. Detective Fusco’s testimony was pretty straight. He was the cop who first responded to the 911 call and who interrogated Pope after his arrest. It was all in his original report that Finch had given John a copy of. Nothing out of the ordinary, until, at the end of his testimony, Fusco made a comment that cast doubt about Pope’s guilt, and clearly threw Diane Hansen off balance.

Absentmindedly passing a hand on his newly clean shaven chin, John wondered what was Finch’s interest in this case. What was his connection with Diane Hansen? He had spent the whole night trying to find info on his new boss, and hadn’t been able to dig up anything.

At the next session recess, John watched from a distance as Hansen took Fusco apart and grilled him about going off-script. Wearing a cheap suit, plump, looking inoffensive enough, the detective was a walking cliché of the lazy paper pusher cop. Looking sideways to see if anyone was watching them, Fusco didn’t seem to appreciate the scold. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here and once she was finished, walked away quickly and grumbling. John wondered if he was purposely trying to sabotage the case, and if, despite his good-natured appearance, Detective Fusco could be a threat to the assistant DA.

As his investigation progressed, John quickly took Pope off of his suspect list, but added Wheeler, Hansen’s too persistent colleague instead, as well as a group of dirty cops led by Narcotics detectives Stills and Azarello. And after their failed attempt at kidnapping Pope’s brother Michael, they moved to the top of John’s list and he decided to tail them.

From their precinct, he followed them to a gas station where they were meeting with none other than Detective Fusco. The homicide detective seemed just as grumpy as he was with Hansen, only acknowledging Stills but ignoring the rest of his crew. Fusco was clearly an outsider in the group. John observed them as Stills handed what looked like an envelope of cash to Fusco, who slid it in his pocket before promptly parting ways with his partners in crime.  Hacking through their phones and email accounts, John got a better picture of their modus operandi. Even if there was nothing directly incriminating in their communications, it was easy to fill in the blanks. Stills and his crew were stealing drugs and money from the very criminals they were investigating, and then, Stills would call Fusco for his help to get rid of the witnesses and arrange for a petty criminal to take the fall for the crimes. Lawrence Pope was their designated “fall guy” on their last bust. The dots were finally connecting, but unfortunately not fast enough. Pope was murdered in his cell before John and Harold had a chance to intervene.

John had mixed feelings about that new job the mysterious Mr. Finch had offered him. He didn’t know anything about his new employer. From what he told John, his mission was noble, but John hadn’t managed to dig up anything on him, and that rattled him a little. He liked to know who he was working for. He needed the reassurance that what he was doing was right, now more than ever. Finch’s Machine, or wherever he got his intel, sounded a little sketchy, but at least it seemed Finch agreed that any intel needed verification and investigation, so they’d know to separate the good guys from the bad guys, and act accordingly. And it wasn’t like John had much else to do. Maybe, if this job with Finch allowed him to save a life or two, that would make up for a few of those he had taken. And if he didn’t like the job, or Mr. Finch, he could always leave. Finch wasn’t much of a threat, and John was very good at disappearing. In the meantime, John had to admit it felt good to be back to work, observing, tailing, putting the pieces together. It kept him busy and put his spy training in good use. And maybe he could as least stop those scumbags like Stills and Fusco from killing and hurting any more people.

After Pope’s murder, things seemed to accelerate. As Detective Stills requested a meeting with Diane Hansen, John geared up and followed her to the rendezvous, ready to intervene in case anything went sideways. Rifle at the ready, John watched from a safe distance as Diane Hansen talked to Detectives Stills and Azzarello. But the meeting didn’t go as John had imagined. They had had it all wrong. It appeared that Diane Hansen was in on the framing and murder of Lawrence Pope, and was now planning to eliminate her colleague, Wheeler. Hansen was not a victim, but a perpetuator. John felt his frustration about the job growing. Why on Earth couldn’t the information be more accurate?

Suddenly, John felt a hand grabbing him by the shoulder. He didn’t need to turn around to know he had been made by the one person missing at the meeting: Detective Fusco. The good-natured cop was slicker than he looked. Knowing he didn’t have tactical advantage, John surrendered immediately. Fusco took his gun and brought him to his criminal companions, forcing him to kneel in front of Stills.

John’s last thoughts before the barrel of Stills’ rifle hit him at the temple were that at least they didn’t check any of his pockets, and his phone was still recording the incriminating exchange between Hansen and Stills.

 

* * *

 

When he regained consciousness, John’s head was throbbing like hell. The irregular movement and the stale smell told him that he was inside a moving vehicle. The car seemed to be going at a steady pace, and the situation was probably safe enough for now. John cracked an eye open. He was in the back of a Police car and Fusco, the Detective who had managed to sneak up on him, was behind the wheel. They had left the city and were driving on a back road in an isolated area along the coast. There was little doubt that the Detective was taking him to his final destination. Apparently, in the hierarchy of their little corrupt ring, Fusco was at the bottom, doing the dirty work and taking out the trash.

John assessed the situation. His hands were handcuffed. He couldn’t easily get rid of the handcuffs, but the good Detective had the sense to cuff his hands at the front. In consequence, even though his movements were restricted, John wasn’t totally incapacitated. He grinned, that didn’t bode well for his opponent. John gazed around, looking for anything that he could use. He checked the content of his pockets, and was pleasantly surprised to find that, along his phone, his tear gas grenade was still there. That was a dumb mistake, one that would be fatal to the careless Detective.

Viewing the whole situation under a new light, John realized that Lionel was indeed trying to throw the judge’s case under the bus by going off-track in his testimony. But he was doing so in order to avoid an innocent man to go to prison. Stills, Azarello, even Hansen, they seemed comfortable with their criminal activities, including killing if they had to. Lionel Fusco, on the other hand, clearly wasn’t happy. He seemed more like someone who was trapped in a situation he had lost control over, but couldn’t see a way out.

Maybe Lionel Fusco wasn’t entirely bad after all. And certainly not to be underestimated, even if just now, he was going to pay for his distraction…

“Nice spot,” John said.

“It's Oyster Bay,” Detective Fusco smirked. “Glad you like it. You're gonna be here a long, long time.”

“I'm curious was there a point where you knew you'd become a bad guy?”

 

* * *

 

For the second time in two days, Lionel drove all the way to Oyster Bay. He wasn’t sure which time was the worst: yesterday, where he got gassed, flipped upside down in his car and shot short range in the vest _four_ times, or today, where he was going to bury Stills to save his own ass.

In any other circumstance, he would have been relieved not to have to work with Stills and his gang anymore. He hated it, but he didn’t have the balls to stand up to them. And it would have been too late anyway. He was in way too deep. Opposing Stills and Azarello would probably have meant the end of him, so by simple instinct of survival, and, admittedly, out of weakness, Lionel went along, and covered crime after crime for them. He even pulled the trigger himself a few times.

And now, Stills was in the trunk of his car, shot dead by some weird tall and dark stranger who, for some twisted reason, decided to let Lionel live. Lionel didn’t deserve any mercy. His hands were just as dirty as Stills’. Yet, Stills was dead, Hansen and Azarello had been arrested, and somehow, Lionel was in the clear.

But this only made Stills’ death more painful. Despite all his wrong doings, Jimmy had always been a good friend to Lionel. He was there for him when he was at his lowest, when Lionel’s wife asked for divorce and asked for Lee’s full custody. He was there to take Lionel home when he was too drunk to drive. He had offered him a shoulder to cry, a place to stay.

Daylight was already fading when Lionel arrived in the woods. He parked his car and took Stills’ dead body out of the trunk. Stills was a big guy and dragging him deep into the wood was  arduous work. By the time Lionel arrived to a spot hidden enough from any paths, he was sweating profusely.

With a heavy heart, he picked up the shovel he had taken with him and started digging a hole. It wasn’t his first time burying a dead body in those woods. But, as the guilt for all his past crimes suddenly crashed on him, Lionel swore to himself it would be the last one. Exhausted and distraught, Lionel kept digging as night settled in. It was pitch dark by the time he had dug a hole big enough.

He climbed up and looked a Jimmy’s cold body. Who was going to tell his wife, and his daughters? How will he ever be able to face them? Tears rolling down his cheeks, Lionel grabbed his friend and dragged him into the hole. For his own sake, he hoped no one would ever find the body.

As he slowly walked to his car, dragging the shovel behind him, Lionel felt the urgent need to see his son, to hold in his arms the one good thing he had managed to do in his entire life. Lee had just turned 9. He was a wonderful kid, and deserved better than an absentee father, who would barely make it to birthdays and Christmases. But if he wanted to be more present in his son’s life, Lionel had to clean up his act first.

It was past 3 a.m. when he arrived at his Brooklyn apartment. Usually, he would have knocked back a bottle of Bourbon. But not tonight. Instead, Lionel collected every single bottle of alcohol in his apartment, every single can of beer, and emptied them all in the sink. Then he threw away all the empty bottles and cans and took the trash out. Feeling somehow a little perked up by his new resolution, Lionel took a quick shower.

_You work for me, now_ , that hot shot had said. Who was he? What did he want? And what did he want from Lionel?

Lionel wondered if he had just jumped out of a frying pan into a fire just as bad. But the events of past couple of days had drained him of all his energy. All those questions would wait for now. His entire body was sore, his brain was fuzzy and he could barely stand on his feet. He finally crashed on his bed and fell asleep immediately.

 

 

To be continued...


	2. The Law of the Fishes (1x20 Matsya Nyaya)

Ashley pulled the trigger. The gunshot resonated in the empty boxing gym and Tommy fell at John’s feet. Tied up to a bench, he was now at Ashley’s mercy. _The law of the fishes_. It was something he had learned the hard way. No matter how tough and bad you become, there will always be a bigger fish in the sea to eat you alive, or shoot you when you let your guard down. And the problem with acquainting yourself with bad people is that, ultimately, they will act precisely as the bad people they are. Betrayal was to be expected. And yet it always seemed to take you off guard. Of all the gunshots John had received, the most painful one had been the one from Kara. They worked together for five years, across four continents, doing terrible things in the name of their country. A perfect team of government assassins, they killed a lot of bad guys and saved each other’s life countless times… And yet, she didn’t hesitate, didn’t waver. In a single shot, she erased it all, killing their friendship as surely as she intended to kill him. So were her orders, and so she did. It was as simple as that.

Loyalty and friendship didn’t seem to mean anything anymore…

John raised a heavy look in Ashley’s direction. “Now what?” he asked. “You think you're gonna walk out of here and live happily ever after? You're dealing with some very bad people.”

“Shut up,” Ashley shouted, rising the gun and pointing it at John. She was holding it with both hands, but her hold was unsure.

“Right now you have what they want, and they won't stop until they get it,” John went on, trying to buy himself some time. Getting out of those ties would take time, his best option was to talk Ashley out of shooting him.

Shaking, Ashley couldn’t resolve herself to pull the trigger again. Looking into her eyes, John read the hesitation. He wasn’t part of her plan. She had to make a decision on the spot, but she wasn’t prepared for it. She hadn’t anticipated she’d have to kill anyone else but Tommy.

He looked down at Tommy’s lifeless body lying between them.

“First time you shot someone?” he asked in a low voice, looking back at her. “First one's hard. You'd probably been thinking about it for a while. Psyched yourself up. But the second one can even be harder.”

She gripped the gun tighter, stepped forward, but finally lowered the gun and quickly walked away. John let go a sigh of relief. Now all he needed was to free himself from his ties before anyone found him next to a dead body. 

 

* * *

 

Fusco and Lynch, the Captain from his old precinct, had teamed up to try and find the missing platinum because Tommy Clay, the cash transporter, had thought it smart to double cross HR and run with their cut of the loot. They entered Arturo's Boxing Club just as a young woman was walking out with a heavy backpack. Without a blink, Lynch shot her short range, right in the chest. He didn’t even bother looking at her, letting Fusco collect the bag and the gun she was carrying.

Lionel caught sight of John behind the boxing ring. He was sitting against a heavy working bench, his hands behind his back, probably tethered and unable to escape. As it was, John was a sitting duck and there was no way Lionel could get him out without Lynch noticing. The Detective was careful not to draw attention to John and instead proceeded into checking the content of the bag. It appeared that it was, indeed, containing their missing platinum. At least that was one piece of good news.

“All there?” Lynch asked.

“Yeah,” Fusco said.

“What do you know? You weren't lying after all.”

He wished Lynch would just focus on the platinum, but unfortunately, John was hard to miss and Lynch had spotted him too.

“Well, look who's here,” he said, a little too cheerfully for Lionel’s taste. “Carter's guardian angel. Thought our paths might cross again at some point.”

Lionel cringed as he heard Lynch hit John with his gun.

“I think it's your turn to hang off the side of a building,” the Captain added.

That didn’t bode well for _Wonderboy_ …

“Hey, forget him,” Lionel shouted. “Let's get out of here.”

“You're right,” Lynch replied, and for a second Lionel thought they were going to leave John there. But he was quickly disillusioned. “I was gonna have some fun,” Lynch went on, “but I'll just shoot him.”

Lionel didn’t even hesitate. He didn’t have to think about it. John was a pain in the ass on his best days, but Lionel had begrudgingly learned to appreciate the work they were doing together with Glasses. At least, they were helping people, and just for that, John deserved to live more than that dirt bag of Lynch. Without a pause, Lionel picked up the gun he had taken from the dead thief, and shot Lynch in the back, before the Captain had a chance to adjust his own shot.

He fell like a mass at John’s feet, who looked up at Lionel, stunned and unusually subdued. Lionel kneeled down next to him to cut his ties.

“Finch, we're gonna need your trunk,” John said in a low voice.

“No,” Lionel countered. “I got this one. I shot him with her gun. Simple enough to make it look like Lynch botched the whole thing.”

He helped John up.

“You're getting good at this, Lionel,” he said.

Lionel looked up at him. “I was always good at this,” he retorted a little defiantly. “That's why you picked me in the first place. Remember?”

John shrugged but remained silent. Lionel took out a pack of tissues and handed one to John, who swiped his bleeding nose.

“Thanks,” he said soberly.

Lionel gave him a look over. He seemed more brooding than usual, and there was a certain darkness in his gaze.

“You okay?” Lionel asked. “It can’t be the first time someone pulls a gun on you…”

John stared down at Lionel. “Even _you_ did…”

“But I just saved your ass, so that cancels things out…” Lionel said, as they were leaving the gym, and walking back to Lionel’s car.

John raised an eyebrow. “You tried to kill me _twice_ … And believe me, very few are those who survived _two_ attempts at my life, Lionel.”

Lionel shrugged. John could try to sound as menacing as he wanted, if he didn’t kill Lionel back then, he wasn’t going to now. “And that’s the _second_ time I save your ass. Don’t forget that time with that crazy Stassi guy. So I say we’re square.”

John shook his head. “He wasn’t crazy,” he said somberly. “He was a good soldier. Dedicated his life to serve his country, they used him, then tossed him.”

Lionel felt like he had hit a sore spot. “Ok, maybe not crazy, but he was still plain scary if you ask me. Not sure what was the scariest,” he smirked, “the needles, or that you let a grandpa get the best of you.”

A short smile briefly brushed John’s lips.

Arriving to his car, Lionel unlocked the door. “I gotta call it in,” he said, reaching for the radio. “Clean up all that mess of dead bodies in there.”

“I guess I better get out of here, then,” John said.

He started walking away, but Lionel couldn’t help but feel worried about him, and he called him back.

“You’re gonna be okay?” he asked again.

John turned around and looked at Lionel for a long time. “I just had a rough day. It brought back some bad memories.”

He marked a pause before adding: “I didn’t pick you because you were good at setting up crime scenes. I picked you because you’d rather go down with your friends than betray them. And that’s worth forgetting those two failed attempts at getting me killed.”

He straightened up the collar of his coat against the cold, turned around, and disappeared into the night.

 

 

To be continued....


	3. Dirt (2x20 In Extremis)

John listened through his earpiece as Lionel confessed his past crimes to Carter.

“I didn't kill Stills, but I'm gonna go down for it just the same. But I deserve it because of… Because of the other bad things I did. You see, back at the 51st -.”

“All right, wait, what do you mean, ‘the other bad things’?”

“See, at first, I thought I was helping to clean up the streets, you know? Who's gonna miss some drug money from a lowlife dealer? Then it became who's gonna miss the dealer? Me and me and Stills, we were friends. He was there for me like a brother, you know? He had my back. And then then you find yourself in a situation, a bad situation that you shouldn't be in. I killed people, Carter. I was a dirty cop.”

John swallowed. Lionel’s audible distress was heartbreaking and his speech was hitting a little too close to home for John. Lionel wasn’t a bad person. He just found himself in a bad situation. John had no idea how long exactly Fusco and Stills had been working together, nor how many people had they killed, but Lionel probably had considerably less blood on his hands than John. And while John had the blessing of his government, he had learned a long time ago that it didn’t make the murders any more excusable. Nor easier to bear.

“But since I met you and our friends, that's all changed,” Lionel was saying. “I'm not that guy anymore. You always told me that if-- that if my past came back around, you wouldn't cover for me, and I'm not asking you to. I just need you to understand - .”

“Stop. Mm-mm,” Carter retorted. “I can't. I don't want to hear any more. I don't know who you are, Lionel.”

John sighed. Of course Carter couldn’t understand. Carter was too much of a straight arrow, always knowing what was right, and living by it. She was of a totally different fiber than Lionel or John. She would never have let the CIA turn her into an assassin. She would have stood up to dirty cops. Heck, she was standing up to dirty cops every day. The most dubious thing she was doing was secretly helping a couple of vigilantes saving people. John had actually always been afraid that working with them was only corrupting Carter’s pure goodness. There were enough corrupt cops out there. The world, and in particular the Police force, needed more people like Carter, who believed in the system and who were doing their best to make it work.

John should be the one helping Lionel right now. But he was way too far, hours away, driving Dr. Nelson upstate, to offer him a chance to face his murderer before he died of Polonium poisoning. So that left only Carter to help Fusco. John hoped that she’d know to make the right choice. Maybe not for her, but for Lionel.

From where he was, there wasn’t much John could do. As he heard Fusco and Carter parting ways, he disconnected the connection and focused his attention on his dying passenger.

 

* * *

 

 It was dawn when they arrived at the edge of the Oyster Bay woods. It was a grey and cold morning. Snow was slowly falling from the sky.

“Nice place to dump a body,” Soriano commented with a cold smile. “But a little snow won't keep the dogs from finding it. Let's go.”

As Lionel got out of the car, his eye fell on Soriano’s gun and badge attached to his belt. With a heavy heart, Lionel wondered if he’d ever get to wear his again. Probably not. He was about to get accused of murder, and he had no way to clear his name. This weasel of Azarello will likely testify against him. And he couldn’t exactly tell the truth, and say it was _The Man in the Suit_ who actually killed Stills. No one would believe him anyway. The ballistics report would confirm Stills had been killed with Lionel’s service weapon, and he would still have to explain why he buried the body himself…

As he followed Soriano in silent through the woods covered in snow, he knew there was no way out. He was about to go to prison for a long, long time.

“End of the line,” Soriano said. “You know, at the end of the day, as a cop, you're the sum of two sides of the ledger. The people who want to see you go down and the people who don't give a crap about you. Now, Fusco, I don't think anyone gives a crap about you.”

Lionel wished he could prove Soriano wrong, but sadly it seemed the Detective was right. Lionel was all alone, facing his sins and about to pay for all his crimes.

He had always been afraid that this day would come. Lionel pictured himself, wearing an orange jumpsuit talking to his son through a dirty window of plexiglass. His heart broke and he almost teared up. But he wouldn’t give Soriano the satisfaction of breaking down in front of him and Fusco swallowed back his tears. Lee would probably not come anyway. Who would want a dirty cop as a dad? That was the most painful part of it for Fusco. He was probably going to lose his son again, just when things were finally going better between them.

He had been sober for almost two years and his ex-wife had finally agreed on letting him see his son beyond hockey practice. Lee was delighted. Lee was still young at the time of the divorce and he had very few memories of the times they all lived together and he had been missing his dad a lot. Now he was living with his dad every other week and Lionel was finally feeling like the father he should have always been.

Even his ex-wife had noted the positive change and was looking at Lionel with a renewed respect. For the first time in a long time, Lionel was starting to feel good about himself.

But that was soon going to be all over.

He startled when Simmons sneaked behind his back. “Just a matter of time now, Fusco. What do you say you lay down in this hole? I'll grab a shovel.”

Lionel ground his teeth and took a deep breath. It took him a lot of willpower not to turn around and punch Simmons in the face. But he didn’t need to add “assault on a law officer” to his list of charges… He knew all this was Simmons’ fault. It was no coincidence that Azarello decided to testify right after Lionel had tried to stand up to HR. Falling for his past sins was one thing, but falling because of Simmons, that was infuriating.

A uniform called Detective Soriano.

“Time to face the truth, Fusco,” Simmons said.

Lionel braced himself.

“Sir, the canine alerted right here, and the soil was loose,” the uniform said. “There was a body here, Detective, but-- Somebody moved it.”

Lionel stared at the empty hole, unable to react. The body wasn’t there. Somebody moved it. Who? There weren’t many people who knew about Stills. A wave of relief washed over Lionel. He was out of the woods. He wasn’t sure who exactly did this, but at least he knew someone gave a crap about him.

Soriano was furious. “You think this is some kind of joke? I know you killed Stills, you son of a bitch,” he vociferated. “What'd you do with the body?”

Lionel straightened up and look at him straight in the eye. “Screw you,” he retorted.

“This ain't over, Fusco. I know you're a dirty cop."

“You're wrong about that,” he said defiantly. “And I'll take my gun and shield back now.”

 

* * *

 

John entered the diner. Carter was already there, sitting at a booth near the window. Bear was sitting at her feet. John patted Bear’s head as he slid to his seat opposite to Carter. A waitress approached and they ordered a couple of beers.

“Thank you,” John said softly, once the waitress was far enough. “For Lionel.”

But Carter shot him a dark look. “Don’t try and tell me this was the right thing to do. This was not right.”

John tilted his head. “And yet, you did it.”

“I’m a cop, John. And I just made myself accomplice of a _murder_.”

John shrugged. “Stills has been dead for a long time. What did you do with the body?”

Cater exhaled exasperatedly and ignored his questions. The waitress brought their beers. Carter watched her walk away before leaning closer to John, looking at him straight in the eyes.

“Did Lionel do it? Did he kill Stills?”

John blinked and shook his head. “He did not.”

“Then what would have been so bad about finding Stills’ body?”

“He was shot with Lionel’s gun.”

Carter frowned. “How do you know that?”

John looked away and remained silent. She stared at him and he could feel her gaze trying to pierce through his armor, all the way to his soul.

“You did not…” she whispered angrily.

John looked back at her. “He was about to kill an innocent man,” he said with a shrug. “I couldn’t let him do that."

“So… You killed Lionel’s friend with his gun? And now you two are working together?”

John grinned. “Life can be funny like that.”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing funny in this, John. I should be arresting you both.”

John turned serious. “Look, I’m sorry that we are corrupting you. Truly,” he said in a low voice. “You may not have done the right thing in regard of the law, but you did the right thing for him, Joss. He made some mistakes –“

“Killing people is more than some mistakes,” Carter cut him off.

John swallowed and lowered his head.

“Everyone deserves a second chance… Lionel is a good friend, and he’s a pretty decent cop too. He just needed to be reminded of it. Lionel isn’t a bad man.”

They finished their beers in silence.

Finally Carter put down her bottle and looked back at him with a hint of mischief in her eyes. “So, hum… About that dead body in the trunk of my car, any tips?” she whispered.

John grinned. “Sure. You need about eight pounds of lye, heated at three hundred degrees.”

Carter shot him a horrified look.

 

 

To be continued...


	4. Delaying the inevitable (3x12 Aletheia)

Lionel entered the dinner and sat down opposite Harold. He slid a folder across the table.

“This is the case report on Simmons’ death. There isn’t much to go with. It was clean and surgical. We probably won’t find who strangled him. Not that it will keep me up at night… He got what he deserved, if you ask me.”

Finch put his hand on the file. He looked exhausted and defeated. “How have you and your son been doing, Detective?” he asked.

“Lee was a little shaken up but he’s doing okay. I told him HR was gone for good and that he was safe now. We won. He’s a tough kid, he’s gonna be fine. His mom is the one freaking out, but she couldn’t talk Lee out of coming over. As for me…”

Right now, he was quite a mess. He was feeling terrible about having endangered Lee and coming so close to losing him. He had never been so terrified, and he would be forever grateful to Shaw for saving his son’s life. And as if that hadn’t been hard enough, Simmons, that despicable garbage, had to take the life of the most righteous and dedicated cop Lionel had ever had the honor to meet. His own partner.

Lionel’s heart tightened. “I’ll be fine,” he sighed. “How about you?”

A sad smile crossed Harold’s face. “Detective Carter was a friend, and one that I’ll miss dearly.”

“How’s John?” Lionel asked, seeing that Harold wouldn’t elaborate any further.

A shadow clouded Harold’s gaze. “He left.”

“Left? For where?”

Harold shook his head. “I’m not sure…”

“Can’t you track him?”

Harold raised a heavy gaze toward Lionel and the detective read all the sorrow and pain weighting on the man’s shoulders.

“Tracking him isn’t the issue. But I fear he has no desire to come back.”

“So he’s just… giving up?”

Harold looked down. “Mr Reese… doesn’t handle loss very well." 

“Yeah, I noticed,” Lionel said with a frown. “Shouldn’t we go check on him then? Where is he?”

The guy had no family and no friends outside of their little group, and after having witnessed John’s rage and despair in his vengeful quest against Simmons, Lionel didn’t like the idea of John being all alone to deal with his own grief.

“He took a flight to Denver, Colorado,” Harold said. “He ditched his phone, so I cannot pinpoint his exact location, but he used one of his credit cards to withdraw cash from an ATM in Colorado Springs.”

Lionel frowned. “So… he’s hiding but not very well? Any reason why he’d go to Colorado?”

Harold shook his head. “Fort Carson is the closest military base, but I don’t know where Mr. Reese was stationed. 

Lionel raised his healing hand. “I’m still off work for a week,” he said. “I’ll go.”

 

* * *

 

Lionel was woken up at dawn by the first rays of light and a sore body protesting against the hardness of the bench and the ache of his bruised ribs. He sat up and gazed around the small lockup of the Seven Falls Police Station. John was deep asleep on the bench to his left and Lionel watched him sleep for a while. None of the surrounding noises echoing from elsewhere in the station seemed to disturb him. He sure had a hell of a heavy sleep for a spy. Though given the unhealthy amount of alcohol he had knocked back, he also had a lot to sleep off… It was a miracle that he had managed to land a couple of good punches to Lionel.

It hadn’t been that hard to find John. He had apparently been drowning his sorrow in a bar off Colorado Springs for three days. He didn’t seem particularly pleased to see Lionel, though he hadn’t told him to get the hell out of there either, so Lionel had sat with him.

As Lionel had feared, John was hurting pretty bad. He had lost all faith in his mission, and no matter what Lionel tried to tell him – even admitting for the first time how much John’s help had meant to him – nothing seemed to reach him. Lionel had never seen John like this, so vulnerable, defeated and… _un-John_. Without his suit but with untidy hair, scruffy cheeks, and a gaze filled with pain and grief, there was nothing left of his usual formidable and confident attitude. Lionel knew John cared about Carter but he hadn’t thought losing her could hit him so hard. Behind his tough and invisible appearance, John was hiding an unexpectedly tender heart.

Looking at John like this, Lionel was reminded of that picture he had found in Carter’s case file for the _The Man in the Suit_. It was a snapshot from a subway CCTV showing John dressed like a hobo, with a big shock of hair and a heavy beard. His slouched attitude, as if he was carrying the weight of the whole world on his shoulders, wasn’t unlike his current attitude. Lionel had never dared asking John about that picture, but he wondered if similarly painful events had led him to let go until he ended up homeless in the subway.

An officer came in and unlocked the cell. “You’re free to go,” he announced.

Lionel glanced at John, still sound asleep on his bench. He shouldn’t leave him there. On the other hand, he should probably also not stay away from New York for too long. With Carter gone and John busy drinking his grief away, Glasses’ team was getting scarce. He should probably check on him, see if he needed any help on a case.

“Can I get my phone?” he asked the officer. “I need to call someone.”

The officer brought him their personal effects and Lionel quickly dialed _Mr. Good News_ ’ number. But Finch wasn’t picking up. This was unusual and not very reassuring. Lionel wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have left him alone when he didn’t have his _Wonderboy_ to watch his back. Lionel didn’t have Shaw’s number and he had no other way to contact Finch. They really needed to get back to New York. Given how important Glasses was to John, Lionel didn’t want to imagine how his friend would react if anything where to happen to Harold. He really needed to talk some sense into John.

 

* * *

 

“I haven't heard from glasses since last night. That's not like him. He probably needs our help, But there's no point, right? We'd just be delaying the inevitable.”

Done with his little speech, Lionel walked out of the cell and John’s gaze followed him until he disappeared out of his sight, but he didn’t move an inch. He was done. There was no way he would come back to New York, no matter the tricks Fusco used.

Why? Why didn’t the Machine tell them that Joss was in danger? They keep saving all those idiots at its command and it wouldn’t even tell them when one  of their own was in danger? He should never have trusted that thing in the first place. He should have known. He, of all people, should have known not to trust uncheckable intel. For a while he thought he had found his purpose. It felt good, saving lives, putting his skills into good use. But that only made the fall hurt more. Was he really condemned to lose people around him without being able to do anything about it? No matter how hard he tried, there would always be a moment where his guard was down, where he would find himself without defense, without a gun. It was all his fault, and he knew it. Simmons was after _him_ , and Joss just happened to be with him because she had come to get him at the precinct. They had kept his weapon and he wasn’t able to defend her. It was his fault she died.

John took his head with both hands and closed his eyes, trying to stop all those thoughts going circles in his head. Thinking was just too painful. That and the hangover.

 _That’s not like him._ Fusco’s words echoed back in his head.

Fusco was right, that was really not like Harold to go silent like this. A knot of anxiety started to grow inside John’s chest. He tried to ignore it, but the seed was planted. Could it be that Harold was really in trouble? Did he try to help a number on his own and things went sideways? But Shaw was still with him, she was perfectly capable of working numbers with Finch and protecting him if anything were to happen…

But then, why had Fusco not been able to reach them?

John’s anxiety kept growing. _We’d only be delaying the inevitable…_   John had made himself the promise that as long as he lived, nothing would ever happen to Harold. Finch had saved his life, he couldn’t simply abandon him. What kind of man would he be if he let anything happen to Harold?

He swallowed the lump in his throat and straightened up. If Harold was in trouble, John couldn’t stand by and not help him.

Heaving a sigh, he cautiously got up. His head was throbbing like hell. He walked out of the station, squinting his eyes against the too bright day light. Lionel was waiting for him right outside the station, in front of rental car. He handed John a bottle of water and a couple of aspirins.

“It’d work better with a pint of pickle juice but they didn’t have any in the police station.”

John winced an darted Lionel a dark and inquisitive look. “Pickle juice?”

“Best hangover remedy. It’s a family recipe. You look like you could use one.”

John just shrugged, but he did take the aspirins and thoroughly drank all the water. He circled the car to the passenger side and looked at Lionel over the roof.

“I’m not coming back,” he said as he opened the door. “I’m just going to check on Harold, since you apparently can’t do that yourself… But I’m not staying.”

Lionel looked up at him and leaned forward. “Hey, Mr. Sunshine,” he snapped. “I know you’re hurting, and that’s okay, but don’t forget you’re not the only one.”

John shrugged. “No one asked you to come…”

“No, you’re right, but what if Glasses truly needs your help and no one had told you, huh?”

John’s heart missed a beat. Colorado suddenly felt horribly far from New York. It’d be several hours before they’d be back on the East Coast, and then they’d still need to find Finch. Without a word, he got into the car, and Lionel drove them to the airport.

They tried to call Harold and Shaw a few more times along the way, and again as soon as they landed at JFK, and with each unanswered call, John’s anxiety reached a new level.

He sent Lionel to check the safehouse while he went and checked the library. There was no sign of either Harold nor Shaw. There was a picture of an Arthur Claypool taped to the glass board, but that didn’t help John in locating Finch.

John took a deep breath and sat at Harold’s computer. “I’m not in the mood for negotiations,” he shot, looking right into the webcam. “Tell me where Harold is, _now_.”

His phone buzzed. It was a text with a location for a bank in Brooklyn.

“Is he in danger?” he asked.

 _Yes_ , said the Machine.

“Show me the site, cameras and all.”

The computer screens lit up, displaying all the video feeds from the bank and John’s heart missed a beat. There were armed masked men everywhere. Someone that looked like Peter Collier was standing in the middle of the main floor. Even Hersh had joined the party. He was standing outside by the main entrance with an entire SWAT team ready to storm in. Vigilance _and_ the government, that was just perfect. John quickly swapped through all the camera feeds, until he found Finch, in the bank’s vault. He was with Claypool and an employee. Two of the masked men seemed to be working on trying to open the vault’s door.

There was not a minute to lose. John ran to his arsenal behind the geography section of the library and grabbed a couple guns, grenades and masks. Calling Fusco, he told him to jump in the car and meet him at the corner of Park Avenue and 37th street.

Driving to the bank was an agonizing thirty minutes. Lionel had had the good sense to bring his police light, which helped them speed through traffic. They turned it off when they arrived in the proximity of the bank and parked a couple blocks away.

They took a minute to assess the situation. The SWAT team was just about to enter the building, but there were still a few men surveilling the bank’s surroundings.

“So what’s the plan?” Lionel asked.

John pointed to two men standing by their SWAT vehicle. “We’re going in with the SWAT team.” It offered the advantage that the SWAT gears and masks would protect them as well as conceal their identities, while eliminating the threat represented by Hersh.

Lionel let John approach the two men and silently neutralize them. They quickly put on all their gear and joined the SWAT team invading the bank. They entered through the main entrance on their tail and discreetly disappeared through a service staircase while the main group was sweeping out the main hall. They found the vault without any difficulty, but it was empty. Suddenly, between two bursts of gunfire, John recognized Peter Collier’s voice echoing against the marble walls of the old building. He gestured Lionel to follow him and, in silence, they hurried down a hall and a series of stairs.

As they made their way down, the group appeared in their line of sight. Collier and his goons had Lionel, Shaw and Claypool surrounded and were apparently about to execute them. John and Lionel fired and took down two of Collier’s men. The rest of them ran away, leaving their hostage free and, to John’s big relief, unscathed.

He took off his mask and hood, and let go a large breath.

“I heard you might need a hand,” he said, looking at Finch.

“Mr. Reese, I am inordinately happy to see you,” and Harold’s sincere delight was almost too much to bear.

John’s heart sank. If it hadn’t been for Lionel dragging him back to New York, Harold would probably have not seen him. Harold was clearly assuming John was truly back. John would have to tell him he wasn’t staying. A conversation John wasn’t looking forward to. It would clearly break Harold’s heart to see John leave again. Luckily, Lionel reminded them they had to move. The conversation would have to wait. The bank was still full of government agents and Vigilance men. They were not out of the woods yet. Right now, they had to get everyone to safety.

 

To be continued...


	5. You’re not alone (4x20 Terra Incognita)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to JinkyO as well as TalkingtotheSky for the beta work!

Done with his report on the bodega shooting, Lionel looked up from his computer screen and glanced across the room at his partner’s desk. John still had not returned. Deciding to check on him before calling it a night, Lionel picked up his phone and dialed John’s number. He was directly sent to voicemail, which was rather unusual, coming from a man who lived with his phone attached to his ear. Unsure if he should be more annoyed or worried, Lionel dialed Harold, who picked up immediately.

“Detective, do you have any news on John?” the little guy asked urgently.

Harold sounded clearly worried. This wasn’t good. John rarely bothered to let Lionel know about his whereabouts, but it was very not like him to keep Glasses in the dark.

“No, I don’t,” he informed Harold. “I was hoping you would know. Can’t you track his phone or something?”

“Unfortunately no. Our secure communication network doesn’t go beyond the five boroughs, as you know. I lost him on the Queens highway, going North.”

“And you said he was working on the Patterson case?”

“Yes, are you familiar with the case?”

“Yeah, that’s an old cold case of Carter’s.”

“Oh…”

Lionel got up and walked to John’s desk. “Let me look into it, Glasses. I’ll keep you updated.”

He hung up and looked at the stack of files spread over his partner’s desk. John was clearly not the most organized cop of the precinct but it appeared he had been actually working on several cases. It looked like he was taking his job more seriously than Lionel had assumed. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad cop after all. Lionel sat down and rummaged through the files. The Patterson case file was easy to spot, standing out wrinkled and washed out, among the most recent files. He picked it up and his heart tightened when he caught the name on the label of the evidence box underneath: _Jocelyn Carter_.

Lionel went through the file quickly. Hopefully there was a location in there somewhere that would explain where his partner went. The murder happened at Patterson’s family penthouse on Park Avenue in the Upper East Side. That didn’t explain why John had to leave Manhattan. But finally, as he was quickly reading through an interrogation transcript, something caught Lionel’s attention. _Our cabin in the Catskills_.

The Catskills were way North, definitely out of range for their secret cell network.

Skimming over the rest of the file, Lionel found the exact address and noted it down.

The trip would be quite long. If by any chance Wonderboy was in trouble, there was not a minute to lose. Lionel grabbed his coat, rounded up a couple of uniformed officers as back-up and hurried to the garage.

 

* * *

 

They arrived at the cabin shortly before midnight. The wind had dropped an hour ago and the night was bitter cold and deathly quiet. Fusco shivered and readjusted his scarf tighter around his neck. About 20 inches had accumulated in the area over the past few days. Guns at the ready, they made their way through the thick snow and circled the cabin. It was dark inside. Lionel reached for the door knob, but as his hand closed over it, he saw something move behind the house.  He swung his flashlight in that direction. The beam cut through the dark to reveal an old car, the driver’s side door swinging open.

On high alert, firmly holding his gun and flashlight in front of him, Lionel signaled the officers to stand still and turned toward the vehicle. As he trudged through the small yard, he discovered with a certain horror that the snow was in places splattered with blood and a body was slumped fifty feet from the cabin. His heart missed a beat, as, for a fraction of second, he thought it might be John. But looking more attentively, he recognized it didn’t look like John. He carefully made his way to the body. He had no idea who the man was, but whoever he was, he had been shot through the heart, bled out right there and was now frozen dead.

Lionel refocused his attention on the vehicle. There was a blood trail going from the dead body to the car. He aimed his flashlight inside the car and saw a figure slumped in the driver’s seat. Now that looked a lot more like John. With a mix of relief and anxiety, he quickly walked to him.

John blinked under the light of the flashlight. Thank god he was alive. But he was chalk white, his lips were blue and his gaze, when he sluggishly looked up at Lionel, was glassy. Then Lionel noticed his shirt was stained with blood. A _lot_ of blood.

“Oh, buddy,” Lionel whispered, “what happened to you?”

“Got shot…” John answered in a barely audible murmur.

Lionel grabbed John’s icy cold hand. “Jeez, John, how long have you been out here?”

John laboriously shrugged. “Dunno. I kinda lost track of time.”

Lionel turned back and called one of the cops that had come with him. “Ruiz, call 911,” he ordered. “GSW and hypothermia. They better bring a chopper. It’s _urgent_.”

“Lionel…” John breathed. “Chase…”

“Patterson? Where is he?”

“Inside. ODing… Needs help.”

Lionel once again turned to Ruiz. “Check inside the house, Chase Patterson apparently needs help as well.”

Ruiz nodded and reached for his phone to call while gesturing to his partner to follow him inside. Lionel returned his attention to John.

“Hold on in here, help’s on its way.”

John had closed his eyes, and if it weren’t for the faint breath coming out of his mouth, he would look as dead as the guy in the snow.  Even more worrisome, while Lionel was shivering so hard that he had to clench his teeth to prevent them from clattering, John seemed totally unfazed by the cold. Which meant his hypothermia was seriously advanced.

He was drifting away and Lionel was worried he’d lose consciousness. It seemed critical for John to warm up or the cold would get him before the arrival of the paramedics.

“Hey, Wonderboy, stay with me.”

Lionel bent over to check the ignition, and noticing the key was in it. He tried to start the car but it stalled.

“Too cold, won’t start…” John mumbled.

“We really need to get you somewhere warm. You think you could make it to the cabin?”

John’s eyes shot opened “No, no, she said not to get out of the car.”

He clumsily tried to push Lionel away, who straightened up hastily and looked around, reaching for his gun. “Who? Is anyone else here?”

John shook his head, as a wave of sorrow clouded his gaze. “No. She’s gone. She’s gone…”

“Who? Who was here?”

“Joss… She said to stay in the car…”

Lionel relaxed and holstered back his gun. He gave his partner a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “Carter? Oh boy, you’re really out of it…”

Lionel started thinking fast. He would probably need to carry John to the cabin, which would be particularly tough going through the thick layer of snow, and probably too much effort for John given his condition. But maybe he could bring his own car close and get John in while they were waiting for the paramedics.

“Okay, buddy, I’ll be right back,” he said.

He ran to his car and drove it as close as possible to John’s car.

“Okay, let’s get you out of here,” he said, passing John’s arm over his shoulders.

“Wait,” John slurred clumsily trying to catch a photograph lying next to the gear stick. “Jessica…”

But his movements were ill-coordinated and all he managed to do was drop the picture to the floor at his feet.

“Hang on, I got it,” Lionel said, bending over to grab it. “Is this from the…”

His words died in his throat. This was not from the case. It was an old picture of John and a young lady, about fifteen years ago judging by John’s younger look. Lionel had no idea who the woman was, but their smiles and body language clearly showed they were close, and happy. John had never shared anything personal with Lionel and the Detective felt he was overstepping on something he wasn’t supposed to see. He thought about sliding the photograph inside John’s jacket pocket, but his partner had blood all over him, so he put it safely in his own pocket.

“I’m keeping it safe for now, okay? I’ll give it back to you tomorrow.”

John nodded weakly. He seemed at the end of his rope.

“Okay, let’s do it,” Lionel said encouragingly as he passed his head under John’s arm once again. “It’s only a couple steps.”

Transferring John from one vehicle to another turned out to be more laborious than Lionel anticipated. The poor guy was downright exhausted, leaning completely on Lionel, who had to carry all his weight. John was barely able to stay conscious But Lionel didn’t give up and got him on the passenger seat of his car at last. He went to retrieve the old blanket he kept in the trunk and carefully wrapped it around John.

“You’ll forgive me for all the dog hair, and the smell. That’s the blanket I use to protect the back seat when you ask me to babysit Bear. But, it’ll help you warm up.”

He closed the door on John’s side and circled the car to take his place in the driver’s seat. Even though he himself was all warmed up by those efforts, he cranked up the heat for John. The temperature inside the car quickly rose and Lionel had to take his coat off.

“Better?” he asked his partner.

John nodded. He looked up at Lionel. “Thank you…” he whispered.

“Don’t mention it.”

“I told her you’d come… You’re a good friend, Lionel.”

Suddenly, remembering he kept a woolen hat in the glove box, Lionel retrieved it and covered John’s head with it.

“Good?”

A faint smile brushed John’s lips. “Peachy…”

“Just hold on, buddy. They should be here soon.”

 

* * *

 

When John woke up, he found himself buried under a giant pile of blankets. He felt exhausted, cold, and sore, but he enjoyed the comfort of this fluffy nest. It took him a minute or two to make out his surroundings and reconnect the dots of the previous day’s events. His heart tightened as he remembered his conversation with Joss. He knew now that it was all a hallucination, but it had felt so real. _She_ had felt so real.

He remembered Lionel’s arrival, but after that, everything was blurry. Somehow Lionel had moved him into another car, one with heat, and a woolen hat. He didn’t remember the paramedics, but they must have arrived too, because he was now in a hospital room.

As he looked around, he saw Harold, sound asleep in a chair by his side. A book was open, face down, on his lap. A brief smile brushed John’s lips. Joss was right. He wasn’t alone.

Gazing at the small table at his bedside, he caught sight of the picture, and next to it, a folded note in Fusco’s unmistakable handwriting. _Next time, don’t forget your hat, Wonderboy_. John grinned. He had to admit, he had that coming. He dropped the note back on the table and let his eyes linger on the photo.

Slowly, he picked it up. He had no idea how Joss came into possession of this photo, or how it had ended up in her personal effects.  All this time, Joss had known about Jessica. And somehow, even after her death, she had managed to bring him that precious vestige of John’s lost paradise.

After he had re-upped, after 9/11, he thought it was best not to keep anything that would remind him of that other life he was living behind, of Jessica, the love of his life, that he had decided to leave behind. And later, at the CIA, he was forbidden to keep anything personal, no personal belongings, no link to his previous life, to his real self. John Tallis had ceased to exist. He had become John Reese.

And yet, somehow, after all this time, an incredible chain of events gave him back a little piece of himself.

 

 

To be continued...


	6. Vigil (5x06 A More Perfect Union/5x07 QSO)

 

The ride home was quiet. It was already rather late when they left the wedding party, but John had insisted he wanted to get back to the City. He had argued that he wanted to be there in case they received another number. But the truth was, for all that the team had teased Root, John was actually the one who was not particularly keen on weddings. They were the quintessence of the normal life he would never have, and reminded him too much of the choices he hadn't made.

Harold had ditched his uncomfortable antique car and decided to go with him. They had no idea how Root had gotten to the Turner property but she, too, had decided to ride back to the city with them, and she was now curled up in the back seat, sleeping. In the passenger seat, Harold was dozing off when he was startled by his phone’s ringtone. He adjusted his glasses on his nose to decipher the ID of the caller.

“Yes, Detective?” he said, picking up the call.

Behind the wheel, John briefly glanced at Harold and tapped on his earpiece to listen to Fusco.

“Finch, I found something,” Lionel was saying.

“Are you working on a case, Detective?”

“Yeah, that new game in town, I think they're responsible for all those missing persons. If this is what you've been warning me about, you need to tell me what we're dealing with, now!”

Harold and John exchanged a look. Lionel didn’t sound happy. There was some muffled sound on the other side of the line and they heard Lionel breathing heavily. “The demolition!” he shouted, “Come on, we gotta go!”

There was a very loud bang and then the line went silent. John’s heart missed a beat. “Lionel?” he called.

“Detective?” Harold echoed, sounding just as worried.

“What’s going on?”  Root asked, pulled from her sleep by the voices of her two companions.

“Track his location and call 911,” John ordered.

Harold bent over to reach for his messenger bag slid beneath his seat. As fast as he could, he retrieved his laptop, fired it up and launched the tracking program to pinpoint Lionel’s location.

“Queens,” Finch identified from his map. “The old tunnel demolition site?”

“What was Lionel doing there?” John asked.

“I asked him to investigate a number,” Root said.

John shot her a deadly look via the rearview mirror. “What?”

Root shrugged. “You ask for his help all the time,” she said defensively. “And Lionel is actually a pretty good detective. He’s a valuable member of the team, even if he doesn’t know everything.”

“I ask him for his help on the _numbers_ ,” John retorted with anger. “But certainly not for anything related to Samaritan. That is _our_ fight, not his.”

“Shh,” Harold hissed firmly to get them to stop so that he could call the emergency telephone number. The laptop in balance on his knees, he grabbed his cellphone from his pocket and dialed 911.

“There’s been an explosion at the tunnel 86 demolition site in Queens. I, uh, I saw a man going in just a few minutes ago, and he didn’t come out. I’m afraid he might have been hurt.”

He hung up. “That should do,” he said soberly.

John nodded. “He mentioned the missing person cases,” he asked Root. “Did you know it was linked to the other missing persons?”

“I might have mentioned it,” Root said in a low voice.

John tightened his grip on the wheel. “I swear to God, Root,” he hissed, “if anything happens to Lionel…”

He left the threat suspended in the air. An icy silence settled in the car, only covered by the roar of the car’s engine.

“John…” Harold said tentatively. “John?”

“What?” John snapped.

“You might want to slow down a little. Now is not the time to crash the car…”

John shot him a cold sideways look but did lift his foot from the gas pedal slightly.

The truth was, if anything were to happen to Lionel, John would never forgive himself. He was the one who brought him in, in the first place. Of course things were a lot more simple back then. They weren’t fighting an ominous AI. John did try, repeatedly, to convince Lionel to back off, but the Detective was determined to keep his place on the team. A tenacity that John would have found admirable, if it wasn’t also putting Lionel into such jeopardy.

“Do you think, maybe, we should consider telling Lionel the truth about the Machine, and Samaritan?” Root asked.

“No!” Harold and John said together.

“Detective Fusco doesn’t have a cover identity,” Harold pointed out. “If Samaritan finds out he is working with us, he won’t be able to hide.”

“And Lionel has too much to lose,” John said. “He has a whole life out there, and a son. We have to keep them safe.”

“We can’t prevent Detective Fusco from doing his job,” Harold mused. “But we can make sure we’re ready if his…”

“Don’t say it,” John cut him off.

“I have ID’s ready for him and his son at the subway.”

“I’ll secure an exit strategy for them,” Root added. “Just in case.”

Harold proceeded to find and bluejack the response team sent to rescue Lionel. Hearts pounding in an anxious chorus, Root, Harold and John listened in.

“Damn, what a mess,” one EMT commented as they arrived at the site of the explosion.

“If the guy’s under the rumble, I wouldn’t bet much on his life,” his partner added.

John was gripping the wheel so tight that his knuckles were hurting. He forced himself to focus on the road.

“Hey, Doggie, what’s up?”

In the distance, they recognized Bear’s yapping.

“Where are you going? Do you want us to follow you?”

“Over there, I can see something!”

There were some shuffling, footsteps. And finally, a voice, like a liberation. “… Hope you guys brought a big jack, cause I’m stuck.” 

It was Lionel. John let go a long breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

 

* * *

 

By the time they arrived in New York City, Lionel had already been brought to a hospital. Listening in, they had gathered he had a broken leg but wasn't suffering from any other serious injuries. He had been admitted for a 24 hour observation, to make sure there were no underlying complications and he was now resting in his room.

They rushed their way through the hospital, and John authoritatively flashed his badge to every medical staff member they encountered so that they’d let him see his partner. A nurse led them to Lionel’s room, and knocked lightly on the room’s door before discreetly opening it to check if Lionel was awake.

Even though it was late, Lionel wasn’t sleeping. Sat up in his hospital bed, he was shuffling on his phone while Bear was sleeping at his feet. The nurse reminded them not to tire the patient and left them alone.

Lionel didn’t seem particularly happy to see his visitors, and John’s heart sank in his chest at the somewhat accusatory look his partner shot him.

John stepped closer. “Lionel, I’m sorry…” he said in a contrite voice.

“It’s my fault,” Root said.

Lionel sat up straight and gave the three of them a long look. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

John and Harold exchanged a look and both shook their heads. “It’s safer for you if you don’t know,” John tried to explain.

Lionel snorted. “Clearly.”

He leaned back against his pillows and grabbed his phone. “Get out of here, I don’t want to see any of you,” he said coldly.

That felt like a punch in the gut. “Lionel…” John started.

But Lionel cut him off, shaking his head. “I’m tired of your little games. Good enough to be sent into the battlefield, but not trustworthy enough to be told what’s going on. I’m through with you.”

“That’s not…”

“Get out.”

John sighed. He glanced at Root and Finch, who were both looking at their shoes, defeated and full of guilt.

“I’ll be right outside,” John said after a short silence, pointing at the chairs in the corridor.

Lionel nodded but didn’t look up from his phone. With a heavy heart, they retreated to the corridor.

“We should go,” Root said.

John shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Lionel is safe here,” Root argued. “If Samaritan was after him, he’d be dead already.”

John clenched his jaw and shot her a deadly look.

“I’m staying,” he repeated.

He glanced at his partner through the window of his hospital room. The room was dark now. Lionel had put away his phone and made himself comfortable to get some sleep.

“Lionel has saved my life half a dozen times,” John said in a low voice. “Just last week, he mobilized the entire precinct to look for me. Lionel is a good friend, my partner at the precinct. I can’t let anything happen to him.”

He quickly scanned the corridor, and picked a chair from where he could watch both ends of the corridor as well as the door to Lionel’s room. He sat down, keeping his eyes on the closed door.

“I need to change ID,” Root said. “I can’t stay here. It wouldn’t be safe, for any of us.”

John looked up at her and nodded, understanding.

“I’ll be back in the morning,” she said before quickly disappearing through a side hallway.

Harold cleared his throat. “I should get back to the subway, check with the Machine. We’ll set up an exit strategy for Lionel and his son. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Staring at an invisible point in front of him, John vaguely nodded. Sensing Harold still standing by his side, he finally looked up. His friend was intently looking at him, studying him.

“It’s not your fault, John,” Harold said softly.

John swallowed the lump in his throat. He knew, rationally, that it wasn’t his fault. He had told Lionel to drop the missing person case. But he couldn’t help but feel guilty all the same. It was his job to protect people, and yet, he kept failing at protecting his friends.

“I should have been there to protect him.”

“We do the best we can, we can’t be everywhere at once.”

John shook his head. “But Lionel isn’t just a number. Lionel is one of _us_ , Harold.”

And they had lost way too many of them.

“Do you ever wonder if maybe we shouldn’t have started all this?” John asked in a low voice.

Harold sighed. “Every day.”

“You think things will ever go back to normal?”

“Define normal…” Harold quipped.

A small smile brushed John’s lips. “A time where we could do our job without fearing the apocalypse every minute of every hour?”

“We have to trust the Machine, we will win this.”

_Or die trying_ , John thought, but he didn’t say it. Lionel had once told him _No one ever said we were gonna win, but it doesn't mean you stop fighting_. This sounded true now more than ever. Lionel had been right then, and he was still right now, and yet, John wished he would just let go of the missing persons case. If he kept digging, Samaritan was going to go after him, like it went after anyone standing in its way. And it was too late to give him a cover identity like they did for the rest of them.

“Anything I can bring you?” Harold asked finally.

John looked at him and shook his head. “I’ll be fine, Harold. Thank you.”

Harold limped his way out, leaving John alone in the quiet of the deserted corridor.

 

 

 To be continued....


	7. We Are Being Watched (5x09 Sotto Voce)

John had finished giving his statement to the precinct captain about all the events of the night and she finally let him go. He exited the interrogation room and slowly walked through the devastated bullpen. Under the morning light, the extent of the damage was even more striking. A paramedic was taking care of Lionel who was sitting on a chair in the middle of the trashed bullpen. Even while mad at John, Lionel had not hesitated to jump on Easton to prevent him from shooting his partner. It reminded John of the time Fusco had jumped in front of a shooter to prevent that kid Darren from getting shot and took the bullet in the butt. This time, luckily, the bullet had only grazed his shoulder. It could have easily been a lot worse.

Lionel was a damn good friend.

If you had told John five years ago that he would feel hurt being rejected by Fusco, John would have laughed it off. And yet, here he was, afraid to lose one of his most loyal friends, and pondering what the best course of action was. Lionel had a good life out there. His son was entering high school, he was the star of the precinct bowling team and he had turned his reputation around so well that now all the rookies were looking up to him. Lionel was also the only one of all John’s friends that wasn’t presumed dead and living under a fake identity. By keeping him out of the AI war, John just wanted to protect him. Lionel’s friendship meant a lot to John and he truly didn’t want to lose it. Yet, he would still have been prepared to lose him as a partner, if that was the price to pay to keep Lionel alive. Except, Lionel was a stubborn man and he was making it very hard to be protected. No matter what John did, Lionel seemed determined to run head-on into the face of danger.

The truth was, there was nothing John could do, or say, or even hide, that would prevent Lionel from being _Lionel_ , a zealous and tenacious detective, and a loyal friend. In the end, Lionel had more than earned his place among the team, and he had earned the right to decide whether or not he wanted to be part of it.

Crossing the bullpen, John walked to the coffee corner by the staircase. The coffeemaker was a rare survivor of the night’s shootout. It was miraculously unscathed. John made two coffees. One black for himself, and one with cream and no sugar for Lionel.

“How's your arm?” he asked his partner as he handed him the cup.

“Gonna take more than a bullet to keep me down,” Lionel replied, with a hint of defiance. 

“It's time we had a talk, Lionel.”

 

* * *

 

Intrigued, Lionel followed John to the rooftop of the precinct.

“So what are we doing here?” He asked. “You're not gonna propose to me, are you?”

But John didn’t seem in the mood for jokes. While leading Lionel to the farthest corner of the rooftop, he held out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

He took Lionel’s phone and, without any warning, threw it over the roof, down into the street below.

“What the hell did you do that for?” Lionel protested.

Ignoring his protest, John grabbed Lionel by the elbow and pulled him into the corner.

“You never know who might be listening,” he said.

 “It wasn't even turned on!”

John remained silent, as he simply looked at Lionel, serious and surprisingly solemn. Lionel felt it was an important moment.

 “What's going on?” he asked again.

“Those questions you've been asking? You deserve answers.”

John looked away, at an invisible point above Lionel’s head, like he always did when Glasses was talking to him via his earpiece.

“These days, even the precinct's not safe,” John answered to Harold. “So maybe the best we can do is trust each other.”

He looked at Lionel and gave him a friendly smile. Lionel’s heart was beating very fast in his chest. This was it, he was finally going to know John and Glasses’ secret, know how they were able to predict which people were about to get in trouble.

“There's a system listening through every microphone, watching through every camera,” John started.

Lionel frowned and stared at John, dumbfounded. He wondered for a moment if John was pulling his leg, but John looked dead serious.

“A system? Like some sort of super computer?”

John nodded. “Finch built it. He calls it The Machine. It’s spying on everyone to predict and prevent terrorist attacks, but it sees all premeditated crimes. So the government works the relevant side, terrorism, and we work on the irrelevant side, everyday people. When the Machine sees something, she sends us a social security number. You know how the rest works. We investigate, save the good guys, stop the bad guys. But it’s all illegal and it has to remain a secret, for everyone’s sake. The government would never let us do our work if they knew the Machine was communicating with other people. And you can imagine the outcry if the existence of the Machine became public…”

This sounded completely nuts, and yet, weirdly familiar. “Hold on,” Lionel said, “I’ve heard that story before. That guy… Beck? Peck?”

John raised an eyebrow. “Henry Peck.”

“Yes, he said the same thing. That there was a computer watching everything and all that.”

“That’s right, and you thought he was nuts…” John smirked.

“Then he disappeared and I never saw him again. Think he’s safe?”

John grinned. “Yes, Lionel, he’s safe.”

Lionel looked around for any camera, suddenly feeling like he was being watched. “So, it’s watching us right now?”

John took him by the elbow and pulled him farther toward the corner of the rooftop, pointing to a camera above their head that was looking in the opposite direction.

“Unless you’re in a blindspot like we are now, then yes, it’s watching and listening, and collecting all your digital prints too.”

“Like reading emails and stuff?”

“Yes, Lionel, _everything_. But that’s not the worst part. The Machine is an ally and knows you’re one of the good guys. But there’s another system, Samaritan, which has fallen into the wrong hands. Some very bad people who are leaning toward world domination. They are the ones working with the government now, and they all want us dead, The Machine and everyone associated with it. That’s why we now have cover identities, so that Samaritan can’t identify us. Finch is Professor Whistler, and I’m Detective Riley.”

“And they’re the ones responsible for killing all those people in the tunnel?”

John shook his head. “We believe that it’s actually Samaritan’s doing, on its own. It seems to have some… great scheme for humanity or something. And it’s also getting rid of anyone getting in its way. So, Lionel,” he added, pointing a finger at his partner. “One important thing. Do not _ever_ mention The Machine or Samaritan to anyone. Not even between us, unless you’re one hundred percent certain that there is no phone, no mike, no camera, nothing digital.”

Lionel nodded. “Of course, I promise. I can keep a secret.”

John looked down and heaved a sigh. “Look, the reason why we didn’t want to tell you is not that we don’t trust you. We were just trying to protect you. Samaritan doesn’t know you’re working with us.”

“You know I can take care of myself.”

John smiled. “Oh I’ve learned a long time ago not to underestimate you, Lionel. But Harold and I… We’ve both lost a lot of people, because of all this. Maybe we got a little too protective. Sometimes it’s hard to know what’s the best decision for the people close to us… We just didn’t want to put you at risk. When we started this, things were a lot simpler. Even HR was a walk in the park compared to these guys. One misstep and we could all wind up dead.” He marked a pause and looked back at Lionel with an apologetic smile. “I didn’t want you involved in this because I, well, I feel responsible for you. I didn’t want to risk anything happening to you.”

Lionel didn’t know what to say. He wasn’t sure what was the hardest thing to process, the idea that there were two machines spying on everyone, or John admitting he was afraid of losing him.

“Damn it, I knew you were going to propose,” he cracked, trying to break the gravity of the moment.

John rolled his eyes, but there was a small smile lingering on his lips. He walked to the railing and leaned on it, watching the city around them.

“We’ve come a long way, huh?”

Lionel leaned next to him. “Thank you,” he said, “for letting me know. It means a lot to me. Actually, it has always meant a lot to me, that you picked me. And don’t worry, I’ll be careful. Who would come and rescue your ass, otherwise?”

John glanced at him over his shoulder and grinned. “Gotta say, you’ve been much better at saving me than trying to kill me.”

“So how long you and Glasses have been doing this?”

“Five years, give or take. I’ve been doing it just as long as you. I met you on my first job for Finch. That attorney you were working with, she was my first number.”

“And how did you and Harold meet?”

“He found me,” John said softly. “To be honest, I’m not sure how. I’m just thankful that he did.”

“Is that why you quit the CIA?”

“No,” John whispered. “But it’s why I’m still here.”

He didn’t elaborate, and Lionel felt it wasn’t his place to press on. “Well, I’m glad you are,” he said simply.

That seemed to take John off guard for a moment. He turned back to look at Lionel and smiled. “Yeah, me too.”

Then he passed his arm around Lionel’s shoulders. “Come on, partner, we’ve got to go. Harold’s waiting for us.”

 

 

To be continued...


	8. Wonderboy (5x13 Return 0)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter takes place after the finale and thus deals with John's death.

 

Fusco startled when someone dropped a pile of files on his desk. He put down the file he had been reading and looked up at the intruder. He didn’t even know who the fellow detective was. Between those that went missing and those that got brought in from other workforces to help deal with the post-apocalypse mess, he didn’t recognize anyone in the precinct anymore.

The one little upside of the whole situation is that the captain had disappeared along with most of the cops that had appeared to be agents of Samaritan, the bad AI, and there was no one to question Fusco’s legitimacy in the 8th precinct. On the contrary, as one of the most renowned “historical” figures of the precinct, he was one of the rare detectives everyone knew for sure who he was and therefore, trusted.

Fusco sighed and glanced over to the desk facing his. Detective Riley was still nowhere to be seen. A lot of the cops that went missing the day everything went to hell had reappeared as dead bodies found at the site of the missile strike. Some of them had been killed by the blast, but a large number had been mortally shot. There must have been a hell of a fight in there, and no doubt John had taken part in it, but there was no sign of him, good or bad. Detective Riley was still missing.

For now, Fusco had managed to defend his partner’s desk, despite the lack of space at the precinct, and the stacks of files piling up on his desk. It had been ten days now, and with no signs of John, Lionel was getting a little desperate. It wasn’t unlike John to disappear without leaving a note, and John wasn’t one for a social call. But ten days was a damn long time, even for him. And if not John, then Harold should have called.

 _No news is no news_ , Shaw had said with her usual laconic manners.

Well, that wasn’t good enough for Fusco. He glanced at his special phone sitting desperately quiet on his desk. No news was _not_ good news.

Lionel kept staring at his silent phone. There was one thing he could try…

 

* * *

 

Fusco straightened the collar of his coat against the wind and resolutely walked to the phone booth across the street. He picked up the phone, like he had seen John do. He wasn’t sure what to expect, and confronted with the silence of the line, he felt really stupid. How did that damn thing work? Was he supposed to insert money? Dial a number?

“Uh, hello?”

“Hello, Lionel,” Root’s voice answered.

Lionel’s heart missed a beat. “Co- Cocoa Puffs?”

“No, Lionel, it’s The Machine. I have just chosen Root’s voice as my own. She’s always been my voice, after all.”

That was deeply disturbing. It sounded so much like Root. But Lionel had seen her cold dead body, and as strange as it sounded, the most rational explanation was that indeed, the artificial super intelligence Harold had built was talking with Root’s voice.

His mouth was dry all of a sudden. He couldn’t bear the pain of asking the question.

“Lionel?” Root’s voice called. “I’m built to predict people, but I can’t read minds – yet. I’m guessing you have a question for me?”

Fusco took a deep breath. His heart was pounding hard in his chest.

“John and Glasses. Do you know… What happened to them?”

He was holding onto the phone handset as if it were a lifeline.

His cellphone buzzed in his jacket, startling him. With a shaky hand he retrieved it from his pocket. On the screen was playing a blurry video from a surveillance camera. Squinting, he brought the phone close to his eyes. He recognized the small figure of Harold, sitting on a bench in a park. By his side, holding his hand, was a woman with vivid red hair, that Lionel recognized as one of the people they had rescued. He remembered driving her to the airport, as she was on her way to start a new life, in Italy.

His throat tightened by emotion, he spoke into the payphone again. “So, Harold made it? He’s in Italy?”

“Yes,” The Machine answered. “He’s in Italy, with Grace, his fiancée.”

“What about John?”

Anxiously, Lionel stared at his phone’s screen, waiting for a second video to appear. But the screen remained black.

“I’m sorry, Lionel,” the Machine said softly.

Finally, the screen switched on, showing a black and white image of a grave, in what looked like a military cemetery. _John Tallis_ it said.

He felt his heart tighten. His vision got blurry, and for a second, he thought he was going to pass out. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the phone booth to catch his breath.

John was dead. _Wonderboy_. His friend, his partner. The man who saved his life. The man who, in some twisted way, bullied him into becoming a better man.

“Is that… his real name?” Lionel articulated, his voice breaking.

“Yes,” The Machine said gently. “John would have said it didn’t matter to him, but Harold knew it did. John never felt worthy of wearing his father’s name, except maybe at that very last moment, when he went and saved the world. He saved me, too. But I think what really mattered to him at that moment was that he saved Harold. So, as a final gift, Harold made sure John got buried under his true name.”

Lionel swept away the tears running down his cheeks with the back of his sleeve.

“Lionel?” The Machine called.

He cleared his voice. “Yes?”

“John would be glad to know you made it. Saving people is what has always driven him. He sacrificed his life so that we could continue to live ours. So go back to your life, to your son, and be a good cop. That’s what John would have wanted for you.”

Lionel nodded and swept the back of his hand across his nose. It had been more than a week, he should have been prepared for John’s death. But he had refused to really picture this possibility. It wasn’t just that John had become a true friend and even his partner at the precinct, but their secret mission of saving people, like some kind of heroic vigilantes, had become the center of Lionel’s existence. What was he going to become now?

“So… Are we going to continue helping people?”

“If that is your wish, Lionel, I’d be honored to continue working with you. We may have been introduced officially only recently, but I’ve been watching you for a long time. I know what a valuable member of the team you have been.”

Lionel wasn’t sure he’d know how to do it all by himself. He was more comfortable with John and Glasses giving him directions.

“Don’t worry, Lionel. Shaw will contact you. It won’t be the same, but we’ll rebuild a team. We’ll continue what Harold and John started. We are their legacy.”

Lionel nodded. “Thank you,” he said with a small voice before hanging up the phone.

He suddenly felt terribly alone. And for the first time in five years, he felt the need to get drunk, to forget.

_Don't you do anything stupid, Lionel. Go home._

The voice in his head sounded horribly like John's. Lionel shook his head, but he knew the voice was right. So he walked back to his car and drove to his son’s high school. It was still early, and Lee wouldn’t come out for another hour, but Lionel just wanted to be with him, so he decided to wait there.

Shortly after five, Lionel spotted Lee, as he came out of the school with a couple of friends. Lionel got out of his car and walked to them. Lee was surprised to see him. It wasn’t in his dad’s habits to come and get him after school.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” he asked.

Lee was a teenager now, and even though they had reconnected and Lee was now living with him half of the time, Lionel also knew to let his son live his own life. He couldn’t catch up with all the years he missed, but he was now doing his best to be the dad Lee needed. Even when it meant Lee would rather spend time with his friends.

But tonight Lionel really needed his son.

He vaguely waved at Lee’s friends and looked at his son. “I just thought I’d come and get you. I… I wanted to see you…”

Lee frowned and gave his dad a look over. “Is everything okay, Dad?”

“Yeah… I ….” Lionel stuttered, unsure on how to explain. “Everything’s fine. I just… I need to tell you something. Can you come with me?”

Lee looked skeptical, but he probably felt it was important, and he didn’t argue. He simply said a quick goodbye to his friends and followed his dad to the car.

In silence, Lionel drove them to John and Harold’s favorite spot, under the Queensboro Bridge. They left their phones in the car and walked to the lonely bench facing Manhattan. There, far enough from any surveillance camera and or recording device, Lionel started telling his son the incredible story of how a tall and dark stranger forced his way into his life. He left out a few of the less commendable parts, and didn’t mention anything regarding The Machine, but he told him everything about how he became part of a secret group helping people, and how, together, they saved the world.

“I wouldn’t be the man I am today if it wasn’t for John,” Lionel concluded. “He was a bonafide hero, and the most loyal friend, even though he had a hard time showing it sometimes…”

 

 

The End.


End file.
